


These Hands (if not gods)

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the stage collapses in on itself in the middle of a show in Cardiff, Patrick finds himself separated from his band and thrust into the the hands of Ianto Jones, the stuffy receptionist from the tourist office he visited earlier, and into the path of mutated slugs the size of a house.</p><p>Who the hell are Ianto and Jack, and what the hell is Torchwood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands (if not gods)

**Author's Note:**

> A mix by the lovely concinnity can be found [here](https://www.dropbox.com/s/kco3yfmftk3btcs/C.V.E.%20BBB%202015.zip?dl=0).

  
_It is hard not to have faith in this:_  
_from the blue-brown clay of night_  
_these two potters crushed and smoothed you_  
_into being- grind, then curve- built your form up  
_ -These Hands, if Not Gods, Natalie Diaz

Patrick likes Cardiff. The weather is always a bit damp and the accents are always a bit strong, but the people are nice and the sounds of the streets remind him a little of Chicago. He sips his tea, hunkered down in his fake leather jacket, and watches people go by. 

The cafe is small, but the tea is made with fresh leaves and the sandwich he’s been picking at for the last hour is fantastic. He'll take what he can get. The air is crisp and cool, wind blowing at his little outdoor table. Summer’s still a way off, but he’s used to worse. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he ignores it. It's almost guaranteed to be Pete, bored blind at some meeting or other. Patrick's not going to relieve him any time soon. It's part of their deal. Pete handles the paperwork and the phone calls and the suits, and Patrick doesn't punch him in the face nearly as often.

Patrick takes another sip of his tea. He does miss the punching sometimes. Just a little.

When the tea is gone, he folds up his napkins and wipes away the crumbs on the table. He makes a neat stack of garbage on top of his plate, trying to minimize his mess. Then he leaves a bill on the weathered wood, anchoring it down against the wind with his mug. 

At home, tucked up with his notebook of souvenirs and expired passports, he's got a stash of bills and coins from all the places they've ever visited. For all that money stays the same, it changes so rapidly across the imaginary lines.

They don't usually get the chance to just be tourists. There's interviews and setting up and trying to shake themselves out of jet lag. Whenever people ask him what it's like to travel to so many countries, he just shrugs and says it's nice enough. It's not like he's backpacking through Europe. He's got a job to do, and that's the long and short of it.

So Patrick's going to take his little bit of free time and run with it. He loves his band, but if he sees a single one of them in the next twenty four hours, he's going to scream. He’s not seventeen anymore. A lot of the shine of band based brotherhood has worn off. 

He wanders through the city idly, shoes dragging through loose pebbles on the sidewalk. Marcus is always on him about wandering off on his own, but Patrick likes the solitude. It feels kind of like an adventure. Him and the world and not a lot else. One day, he’d like to do actual travel. See the sights, learn the languages, stay in hostels and flirt with strangers. 

It’s a nice dream. 

He stumbles onto the tourist’s shack just after noon. It’s shabby on the outside, old wood worn by the salty air off the bay, but the sign is neat and clean and the light on the inside shines through the cracks. Patrick looks over his shoulder at the empty street before shrugging. He could go for a good museum, or maybe a highly recommended whiskey. He’s not difficult to please.

The chime above the door goes off when Patrick walks in. Inside, everything is arranged in neat rows, everything perfectly in place. The shelf of trinkets next to the door glows a little under the fluorescent lights. Patrick touches a plush red and green dragon and thinks about grabbing it for Saint or Ruby. It’s just the right size for a chubby baby hand to wrap around.

"Evening," the man behind the desk says blandly. He shuffles a few papers without looking up, frowning down at them. 

He's overdressed for a tourist office in his three piece suit. The pinstriped jacket sits squarely on his shoulders and the fine line of his waistcoat is fitted immaculately. He doesn't look ridiculous in his bright pink shirt, which is more than Patrick can say for himself. He's tried pastels. They don’t work on him. 

For a moment, Patrick can do nothing but be appreciative. He thinks about asking for the name of the man’s tailor before biting it back. Is that a weird question to ask a stranger? He’s almost forgotten what normal is.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" The man asks. He's got a snub little nose that he looks down, thin lips drawn tight. Patrick tries not to giggle as he imagines all the British butlers he's ever seen on TV. The man raises an eyebrow and Patrick tamps down his amusement.

"I-" Patrick startles when the door at the back of the shop opens, banging against the wall. 

"Ianto!" Another man marches through the room, thick wool coat blowing pamphlets off one of the tables. The man behind the desk- Ianto, presumably- sighs. "Ianto, have you seen- Hello there."

"Hey," Patrick says hesitantly. The man’s stare is intense to the point of awkwardness. He picks up a chess set for something to do with his hands and looks at the cover. One side is made up of the same cutesy red dragons as the plush toy. The other is made up of sheep. 

“Can it wait, sir?” Ianto asks. Patrick doesn’t have to look up to know he’s being watched. There's a pause, and then Ianto hisses something too soft for Patrick to hear. 

"Not entirely," the other man says. Patrick sets down the chess set and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Sorry," he says. Twin sets of blue eyes lock onto him. He squirms awkwardly under their attention. "Just wanted to see if there was something coming up in town. I'll just-" He jerks his thumb toward the door. Something feels weird about the place. Not malicious, but definitely off putting.

Ianto steps around the desk, plucks a pamphlet from the wall and strides across the store in three quick steps. Patrick notices for the first time just how tall he is. Ianto hands him the _What's On_ brochure and smiles. 

"The sci-fi weekender is on," he says and the other man lets out a small sigh of a laugh. "Some American rock band is playing tomorrow. Supposed to be a big to-do."

Patrick opens the pamphlet and sees his own face on the glossy print. He winces and wonders if Ianto’s making fun of him. Neither one of the men makes a comment about it, though, so he tries to tell himself that they really don't know. He's used to not being recognized without a hat. Once upon a time it was disheartening, but he tends to think of it as a blessing these days. 

"I apologize, but we're closing early today," Ianto says. He looks back at the other man and Patrick thinks _oh_. He grins and nods, barely resisting the urge to flash them a thumbs up. He’s been spending too much time with Pete.

"Right. Sure." He tucks the pamphlet into his pocket and backs towards the door. "Thanks."

The door chimes behind him as it closes. A moment later, the lock clicks and the lights in the office go dark. He tries not to think about stuffy Ianto and the loose limbed man in the oversized coat pressed together, but it's almost impossibly easy to do. They’re both pretty enough. 

When his phone rings again, Patrick answers.

"Rick," Pete says, his grin loud through the phone. Patrick sighs. "Joe has left me for a pub crawl.” He pauses dramatically before repeating himself. “A _pub crawl_.”

“Wales is a big place,” Patrick says. He thumbs through the pamphlet, looking over the photos and bolded titles. He’s a bit sad that they missed St. David’s Day. There’s nothing quite like a big parade to cheer him up. “I’m sure you can find something to do.”

“It’s no fun doing it alone,” Pete sighs. Patrick rolls his eyes and walks toward the waterfront. He feels unrushed and lazy. It’s magnificent. 

“Says you,” Patrick mutters into the phone. He settles in on a slab of stone and crosses his ankles in front of him. A breeze gusts up over the water and blows his hair back over his forehead. It smells a bit like fish and a little like brine. He loves it. “We’ll meet up for dinner at six. If you come near me before then, I’m going to throw you into bay.”

“You’re a cold, cold man, Rick,” Pete says. Patrick grins and clicks off.

He sits on the stone slab for a long time, watching the bay and the people. He’s always been fond of large bodies of water and the silence around them. They remind him of home. It never ceases to amaze him how similar the little things are around the world. 

Patrick flips through the pamphlet again, making lazy half hearted plans to visit sculptures and landmarks and the pub of the month. He thinks about texting Andy about the sci-fi thing, but figures he’s probably already sniffed it out. 

After a while, he sees Ianto and his colleague walking down the sidewalk, their shoulders bumping and the coat billowing in the breeze. They look almost like any other pedestrians on the street, but people seem to shy away from them. 

Ianto looks up, eyes catching on Patrick’s. Patrick feels guilty, like he’s been caught out at doing something he shouldn’t. He looks away before it can get weird. Weirder. When he chances another glance up, they’re gone.

Patrick heads back to the hotel, all plans of exploring given up as a lost cause. He’s early, but he doesn’t think Pete will mind.

\---

“I hate the United Kingdom,” Pete says. He wrings out his shirt, fingers catching in the rips of the sleeves. Water splashes down into the tub, vaguely gray. Pete’s a father, Patrick thinks wryly. It doesn’t seem to matter. He and hygiene have never really mixed and probably never will. Patrick worries for the children.

“You say that every time,” Patrick says, toeing out of his soaked sneakers. They squelch pathetically when he puts them on the heater. He balls up his sopping socks and throws them toward the bathtub. They hit Pete’s leg with wet thuds, one after another, before rolling behind the toilet. “But we always come back.”

“You’re gross,” Pete says, scrubbing at his leg with a dirty foot. Patrick blinks at him and then at the gray tub. “Your grossness does not negate my grossness.”

“Glad we have that cleared up.” Patrick shoulders past Pete to grab one of the fluffy red towels on the back of the toilet. He wipes halfheartedly at his arms and pats at his chest. A chill has started up under his skin, but he feels clean. Fresh. Give him the classifieds.

He does like pina coladas, and he does like getting caught in the rain.

“You could go to your own room if you don’t want to deal with my grossness,” Patrick says.

There are a lot of things he misses about the old days. Sharing hotel rooms is not one of those things. He looks longingly at the forest green sheets on his queen sized bed and hopes that Pete catches a clue.

Pete hangs his damp shirt up over the rail of the shower and shrugs. His skin is goose pimpled, the lines of his tattoos raised and stark. He smiles when he turns around, all teeth, and Patrick knows he’s staying. Sighing, he peels his t-shirt off and throws it into the tub. Goodbye sleep. 

“Something feels wrong,” Pete says. He rubs his arms and shivers. Patrick ducks out of the bathroom and turns the heat up. Pete’s always run too cold. Patrick’s gotten used to it.

“I hate to be that guy,” Patrick says anxiously. He sucks on his lower lip for a moment before puffing out his cheeks. “But have you been taking your pills?”

“Yes, mother,” Pete says dryly. 

A few years ago, it would have been a fight. There would have been fists and teeth and nasty words that stuck with both of them for days. Now, Pete just rolls his eyes and roots around in his bag to rattle the half empty bottle. He takes one out and swallows it dry, raising his eyebrows. 

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He sloughs off his jeans and lets them lay in the corner. A hot shower sounds amazing, but he doesn’t trust Pete to be left alone for an extended period with his things. “If you drool on me, you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, peaches,” Pete says, grinning. His unshaven cheeks bulge. Joe and Andy owe him so, so much.

Patrick changes in the bathroom, rubbing another towel over his skin until he feels almost warm again. As he’s pulling on his shirt, a squirmy, ugly slug the size of his thumb crawls out of the drain.

“Jesus.” Patrick stumbles back, knocking into the door. The little metal towel hook pinches against his neck when he tries to push away.

The slug squeezes its way out with a wet plop. Its gray skin is painted with vivid yellow rings, pulsating across its worming, undulating body. Bright colors in nature tend to be bad, Patrick thinks as he looks around for something to squash it with. Dart frogs, caterpillars, jellyfish. Anything that lives in Australia. 

“Dude, you okay?” Pete asks through the door, his hand turning the knob directly into Patrick’s spine. Patrick swears and moves away from it and closer to the slug. He turns the faucet on full blast and hopes for the best.

“Fucking bugs,” Patrick mumbles as Pete peeks in. He watches the slug swirl the drain twice before falling back into the darkness. The water doesn’t go down after it. Fantastic. “At least it wasn’t a cockroach.”

“Or a spider. We’re moving up in the world,” Pete says agreeably. “Window side?” Patrick sighs and pulls his shirt the rest of the way on. At least the bed’s a queen, he thinks sorrowfully. 

“Yeah,” he says.

They brush their teeth, spitting into the toilet to keep from gumming up the clogged sink. Pete waits patiently for Patrick to crawl into the bed before rolling under the sheets next to him. His skin is cold where it touches Patrick’s, but he’s used to it by now. In the morning, he’ll wake up sweating under Pete’s arm and chest and anything else Pete manages to get on him. 

“Do you feel it?” Pete asks after a while, barely above a whisper. He wraps his hand around Patrick’s wrist, fingers calculating his pulse. “The wrongness?”

“Go to sleep,” Patrick says. He squirms under Pete’s weight until he finds a comfortable place to lay, peeling Pete’s elbow away from his ribs. He ignores the sucking sound in the bathroom and tries to heed his own advice.

Pete’s not wrong.

\---

The alarm goes off at seven twenty-five, beeping angrily from the nightstand. Patrick groans and pushes his face into his pillow. His arms are stiff and sore from where they’d been twisted up under his chest all night. Pete’s knees dig into his ribs where they’re curled up, pointed and sharp. Patrick shoves at him halfheartedly.

“Pete,” he croaks. His mouth tastes sour and dry, tongue sticking to the roof. On the dresser, the alarm keeps going off. He jams his fingers into Pete’s ribs. Pete mutters something insulting and flips onto his stomach. Patrick has exactly two square inches of bed. The freezing plaster of the wall gives him the shakes. “Pete, wake up the fuck up.”

“Fuck off,” Pete groans. He pulls a pillow over his head and mashes his face into the mattress. The alarm rises in volume. If they don’t get it in the next couple of minutes, it’ll sound like a siren going off. 

Patrick kicks his way out from under the blanket, shivering in the frigid air of the room. He’d turned the heat up before they went to sleep. It should be sweltering. He climbs over Pete, making sure to dig his elbows and knees into Pete’s soft parts, and grabs his phone. The sudden silence is blissful.

“Get off me,” Pete grumbles, voice muffled by the mattress. Patrick stretches out on top of him and checks his email.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick rolls off the bed and hisses when his bare feet touch the floor. The thermostat still reads twenty-six celsius, but he feels like his balls are going to shrivel up and fall off. Patrick knocks the heater with his fist, but it just belches out a wave of cool air. A hot shower is the answer to every single one of his problems. He grabs his bag of toiletries, a change of clothes, and pilfers a razor from Pete's bag before heading into the bathroom. 

He stops short in the doorway.

The sink is broken. A little piece of porcelain has chipped entirely off, leaving a jagged opening right at the base of the drain. Thick, fat drops of water leak down from the broken drain pipe and into a puddle on the floor. It looks like someone took a hammer to it. For a second, Patrick is so furious at Pete that he sees red.

But, he tells himself as he takes a closer look, if Pete had gone after the sink while Patrick was sleeping, the noise would have woken him. He takes three deep breaths, in through the mouth, out through the nose. When he’s calm again, Patrick squats in front of the sink and pokes at the splintered pipe. A low hiss escapes him when a sharp edge cuts through his fingertip.

Swearing, he fumbles for the toilet paper roll and tears a strip off. Red bleeds through even as he bunches it up against the cut. It doesn’t feel particularly deep, but playing on it is going to be _awful_.

“What happened to the sink?” Pete asks as he leans in the doorway. His bleached hair lays flat on one side, spiked up on the other. He presses the heel of his palm against his temple and grimaces. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick says. He waves his injured hand toward his bag. “Can you get a bandaid?”

Pete patches him up, his thick eyebrows drawn together in concentration. A bead of blood wells up under the cloth patch before it’s all the way on. Dutifully, Pete applies a second bandage on top of the first one. Patrick flexes his knuckle under the stiff wrapping, but it doesn’t bend down all the way. Dammit.

“Should we call housekeeping?” Pete asks, jerking his hands at the sink. He keeps reaching out to try to touch the open pipe, but Patrick grabs his hand and steers him back over and over again. One of them is already injured. They don’t need a matched set.

“Make Marcus do it later?” Patrick asks. Even though he slept all night, he feels wrung out. He can’t handle arguing with the hotel manager about mysterious plumbing explosions.

“My life motto,” Pete agrees. He helps Patrick clean up the blood from the floor and throws the stained towel into the hamper. Patrick looks mournfully at the shower and shakes his head. So much for that. He sniffs at himself and sighs. A little extra cologne never hurt anybody. 

They dress in their own separate corners of the room, sleep heavy hands moving slowly. Once upon a time, Patrick had been shy about getting undressed near Pete. Hormones and low self-esteem and the tiniest crush that he will never, ever admit to out loud all added up to the makings of a nightmare. He’s gotten over all of them in the last decade. Mostly. Almost one hundred percent.

Andy meets them in the hallway, hair slicked back and sunglasses already on. The edge of his snake tattoo curls up over the collar of his shirt and up his neck. It looks wet, like it’s just been done. Patrick rubs at his own throat and looks away. He’s willing to admit he’s a pansy as long as it means the nice men with the needles will stay away from him.

“Joe’s staked out a table in the dining room,” Andy says.

He digs a bag of granola out of his pocket and dips his fingers in past the zip top. He’d made a big deal about stocking up when they’d hit Milwaukee. Patrick’s had that granola before. He’s not sure what Mixon puts in it, but he’s convinced it’s hippie drugs. Delicious, addictive hippie drugs. Patrick’s pretty confident he can convince Pete to steal a bag, but he’s not sure he’s up to living through the consequences.

Andy is a wonderful, mostly passive man, but he’s also smarter than all three of them combined. Patrick has learned to respect that. 

When they reach the mostly deserted dining room, Joe waves them over with a fork. He’s on the phone, smiling in that stupid way that means Marie’s either put Ruby or one of the dogs on. Pete snags an apple and pulls out his laptop. The wifi is sucky, but Pete’ll get both Skype dates in before lunch if it kills him. He always does. 

Patrick takes a plate to the buffet, loads up on carbs, and eats silently while the others call home.

He could call his mom, he supposes, if he really wanted to talk to someone. There hasn’t been anyone else for a while. He’d thought he’d really had something there for a minute, entertained the idea of diamond rings and a shared kitchen and a sweet smile to wake up to in the morning. And then it went downhill, and there wasn’t even anyone to blame. 

He looks at Pete’s stupid grin and Joe’s soft eyes and Andy’s twitching hands. He doesn’t begrudge them a single moment, but he does feel a prickle of jealousy. 

He shovels a forkful of pancakes into his mouth and rolls his eyes. He’s thirty years old. It’s a bit early in the game to be throwing in the towel.

\---

Patrick rocks on his heels as he waits for stage call. He’s wound up, his fingertip aching as he stretches his fingers out. He’s never been too great at waiting. The house music pumps in through the speakers in the dressing room, faint but ever present. It’s something techno and fast that makes his head pound. 

The thick, acrid smell of weed rises up from the couch. Joe’s sprawled out across it, head tipped back over one arm and feet on the other. He and Pete pass the little glass blown bowl back and forth, silent but for the occasional cough. Andy’s on the other side of the room, pointedly staring at them over the rim of his glasses. Familiar things. Good things. 

“Three minutes.” A venue person sticks his head in long enough to hold up three fingers and then disappears, nothing but a blur of yellow shirt and bald head. Patrick bobs up onto his toes. He’s ready to go. 

They walk single file to sidestage, boots pounding heavily on the floorboards. Out there, the lights are already out and the crowd is making noise. Patrick feels lightheaded in the best way as they huddle together. Pete and Joe smell like weed and Andy’s already sweating, but Patrick trades hugs with each of them, stealing their energy and tucking into his insides.

The roar that greets them when they step onto the stage is louder than the music pumping into his ears. Patrick feels like he’s flying. 

The stage rumbles under his feet as Andy begins to play. Patrick leans into his mic and wraps his fingers tightly around the neck of his guitar. His wound aches, and he can already feel the strings cutting through the bandages, but up here, with his band, is the only place he belongs.

When they cut off the first song, Pete wraps his hand around his own mic and wipes the back of his wrist over his forehead. He’s got too many layers on, but he won’t take the jacket off until halfway through the show. He has a _ritual_. Joe’s been making fun of him for it for months.

“Hey,” Pete says, and a wave of voices rushes up to greet him. He smiles, the light turning his hair golden. Patrick chokes down half a bottle of water and tries to catch his breath. The first song out is always the doozy. 

Patrick scans the crowd, looking over the hundreds of faces staring back at him. He can only see the first couple of rows, the lights shining down too brightly for him to see any farther, but it’s more than enough. Someone’s got a homemade Chicago flag with four tiny Welsh dragons instead of stars. He grins and shakes his head.

This will never, ever get old. It’s worth the sacrifices. 

“If you guys could do me a favor,” Pete says, “and on the count of three take one big step back.” Some of the kids in the front row brace themselves against the barricade, heads ducked and hands going tight around the bars. Patrick holds up a hand and counts down fingers in time to Pete’s voice. There’s a mass heave, some shouting, and then the kids settle. “Thanks.”

Patrick remembers going to shows as a kid. He remembers sweating and singing and thrashing against bodies so close to his own. He doesn’t remember people fainting half way through the set, or people getting bruised ribs from being pressed too hard against the photo pit gate. It scares the hell out of him some nights. There’s violence out there when there should be nothing but joy. 

There seems to be a lot of that, these days.

They play on. Some nights, when he’s trying to sleep, all he can hear is their music in his ears, all familiar notes and rhythms and words driving him slowly insane. His moves are practiced, and the playing is mostly muscle memory, but he knows it’s a damn good show. Soon enough, they’ll get antsy and release new music and the high will be fresh again. He just has to wait it out until then. 

Halfway through the set, something cracks. Patrick hears it like a breaking bone over the music and the cheering. He stumbles back toward the drum risers and knocks into Joe. His guitar crashes to the ground in a loop of painful feedback as the stage shifts underneath him.

He’s been on a stage that’s collapsed before. He remembers the sound and the feel and the terror of the world going topsy turvy. His heart jumps into his throat. The kids in the front row scream and Patrick stops breathing altogether. 

Two feet in front of him, right between his mic stand and Joe’s, a hole starts to grow in the floor. Something eats at the wood slowly, spreading in a loose, jagged circle. It doesn’t look real. Carefully, security edges close to them, tiptoeing across the stage. Two more holes form before they even get close. 

One of the security girls screams as the stage opens up under her feet. She disappears, the lights still strobing from the pre-timed set-up. The hole that sucked her away flashes red and then yellow and then blue. Slowly, like a horror movie, dozens of yellow ringed slugs begin to crawl up out of the holes and onto the stage.

“This way,” a security guard shouts, grabbing Joe by the arm. 

Joe nods frantically, his hair bouncing and hiding his face, and begins to pick his way through the wires and the amps. They follow after him in single file: Andy, Pete, and Patrick at the rear. The crowd is nothing but a mass of terrified, writhing bodies. Patrick’s chest clutches in worry as someone in the crowd howls in pain. 

Three fat, slimy slugs wriggle toward them in a dark formation. They look just like the one in the hotel bathroom had. Patrick thinks about crows remembering those who’ve harmed them or their families and seeking revenge. He’s unleashed an army because of one stupid bug.

They’re almost off the stage, almost _safe_ , when Patrick’s boot snags on a fresh hole. It’s barely bigger than a baseball, but it’s growing at a staggering pace. He tries to yank his leg free, but it just slips farther down. He sees Pete turn to look for him, eyes wide and hand already reaching out. But then gravity grabs him and he falls into the underbelly of the stage, the hardwood tearing at his clothes and stomach.

He thinks about his parents, about Joe and Pete and Andy, and wills himself to accept death. By slugs. Jesus Christ.

He lands on something hard. It doesn’t feel like concrete- his head doesn’t ache, even though he banged it on something on the way down- but his shoulder feels like it’s been wrenched from its socket. He touches the sore skin of his belly, but doesn’t feel blood. There’s nothing but darkness around him. 

“Hello again,” the thing under him says.

Patrick yelps and jumps up, scrambling backwards until his back hits a wall. His heartbeat thunders in his ears. Combined with the ringing left over from playing, he’s damn near deaf. A light clicks on, and then all Patrick sees is white teeth and bright blue eyes.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” the teeth say. The light moves down, and Patrick can see a hand extended out toward him. Patrick blinks blindly at it. Jack shrugs and lets his arm drop. The other man from the tourist office. It feels like it's been centuries since Patrick saw him last. What the hell is he doing here? “You didn’t tell us you were in the nice American rock band. Shame.”

“I-“ Patrick tries to make his throat work, but his mouth is too dry. He swallows and his throat clicks. He’s not dead. He’s- actually a little annoyed. Bruised in body and ego, but not dead. “You looked busy.”

“A little,” Jack admits with a leer. He looks just past Patrick and his smile falters. Under his ridiculous coat, his shoulders stiffen. 

“What’s going on?” Patrick asks. 

“Just a little infestation,” Jack says. He puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and steers him through the darkness, grip like iron. Patrick trips twice on his own feet before finding solid footing. Down here, the concrete is uneven and blistered. Jack’s hand is the only thing that keeps him stable. “Teeny-tiny bit of acid. Nothing to worry about.”

“ _Acid_ ,” Patrick repeats, swallowing against his tongue. He’s not proud of how high his voice sounds. 

“Don’t touch the walls, and don’t go near the slugs.” Jack turns a corner and drags Patrick along after him. “You’ll be fine.” There’s the sharp, earsplitting sound of metal grating against metal and then something breaks with a small hiss. “Squash what you can.” 

Patrick takes the pipe that Jack shoves into his hands. It’s freezing against his skin, and he can feel the rough patches where rust has started to set in, but he holds it tight. Overwhelmingly, he feels like he’s in a zombie movie. Where’s Andy when he needs him?

"You know," Jack says brightly, ducking through a blocked off area. Patrick stumbles along after him, trying to will his eyes to adjust. Gardens, he thinks as Jack squashes a slug under his boot. He will never look at gardens the same way ever again. "For all the people I've met, rock star hasn't been on that list. Presidents, ambassadors, mimes- love a good mime- but no rock stars.”

"I’m not really a rock star," Patrick says automatically. Something crashes behind them. Patrick doesn't look back, but his heart speeds up. "Maybe we could talk about it when we're not in immediate danger?"

"I'll hold you to that," Jack says. He shoves Patrick behind a stack of boxes, tucking him almost all the way into the corner. His hands tighten on Patrick’s shoulders. The whole world narrows down to the blue of his eyes. All of his cheery playfulness is gone. "Stay here. Do not move. Do you got that?"

"Staying still," Patrick repeats numbly, nodding. He’s not sure what else there even is to do. His chest tightens, shock slipping neatly into his system as he feels a slug crawl up over his boot. He's going crazy. That’s got to be what it is. Pete finally drove him straight into the loony bin and Jack’s just a pretty hallucination.

“Someone will be by to get you,” Jack says. He leans in close enough that Patrick can feel the brush of his coat. The flashlight illuminates the hall, bouncing over boxes and the glistening bodies of the slugs. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and takes in a few soothing, anger managing breaths.

When he opens them again, Jack is gone. 

Patrick listens to the sounds of people stampeding overhead, clutching the pipe to his chest. Something crawls by his shoe and he lashes out at it. The slug pops with a wet, sickening squelch. Patrick’s stomach turns.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there in the dark, pounding the walls with his stupid metal stick. His arms ache and the cut on his finger stings. The sharp, ugly sound of metal hitting concrete is making his head throb, but he refuses to stop. He doesn’t know where his bandages went. He focuses on thinking about antiseptics and the sting of peroxide. It’s as good a distraction as any. 

There’s a crash down the hall. Patrick closes his eyes and hopes it’s Jack coming back for him. He hears the drag of something big and heavy against the concrete. Whatever it is, it’s heading straight for him. 

Carefully, Patrick tiptoes towards the end of his hiding place. His eyes have adjusted a little, but everything is still just shades of gray and darker gray. He kicks a slug near his foot, too worried about making sound to kill it. Sucking in a deep breath and holding it, he peeks around the boxes.

It’s a slug. It’s a massive, horrifying slug the size of a house. 

The thing inches its way down the hall, antenne brushing the wall. Its giant mouth gapes open, trembling and wet, saliva dripping down onto the ground. One of its eyestalks twitch and plaster falls from the ceiling. Patrick stumbles back, ducking against the floor. The slug groans, an inhuman aching sound that ricochets off the walls. Patrick’s pretty sure he’ll be hearing that sound for the rest of his life. 

Patrick tightens his hands around the pipe. If worst comes to worst, he can attempt to stab it and run. He wishes suddenly and fiercely for a Costco sized salt shaker. He’d love nothing more than to watch the little fuckers burn. The slug rumbles past, leaving a thick line of sludge behind it. Patrick can hear the ground sizzling. Acid. Sluggy _acid_. He is so, so fucked. 

He kills sixteen more of the small slugs, one after another, but they just keep coming. If they have the capacity to grow to the size of the other one, the whole of the United Kingdom is doomed. The world, maybe. It’s terrifying in a way that Patrick can’t wrap his head around. 

_“Patrick.”_

Patrick jerks to a halt, frozen in mid swing. He could be hallucinating, but he’s certain that someone just said his name. His voice sticks in his throat. At this point, he’s willing to believe the acid slugs can talk, too. Psychic, talking, acid slugs. A light shines through the hall, and then Ianto appears at the end of the boxes. 

“Okay?” Ianto asks, eyes and flashlight scanning over Patrick quickly. He’s still in his suit. It looks bizarre in the dark next to the dirt and broken boxes. 

“Terrified,” Patrick chokes out. “Did you see the-” He waves his hand, trying to say _gigantic monster_ without _saying_ it. Saying it makes it real. Not saying it means it could just be contact high. He’d really, really like it to be because of a contact high. 

Completely ignoring Patrick’s inner logic, Ianto nods. He looks back over his shoulder, and Patrick finally notices the gun in his other hand. Oh, good. Guns. That’s always promising. 

“How many are there?” Patrick asks. 

“A lot,” Ianto says. “We’re evacuating the building.”

“What about the slugs?” Patrick asks. He pounds one into mush out of spite as Ianto sticks something on wall. It’s barely the size of his fist, round and thin like a CD. The thing clicks and then glows a soft, faint blue. 

“We’re taking care of it.” Ianto presses his fingers to his ear. He looks alien in the wash of the light, skin tinged pale blue and eyes black. “Charge one in place. I have Patrick. No other civilians in sight.” He checks around the side of the boxes, gun leading the way, before nodding. “Come on. Stay close.”

Patrick follows behind him, careful to stay away from the walls. He wants to ask if Ianto’s a cop, but he’s not sure he really wants to know the answer. Ianto leads them through the basement, his flashlight barely bouncing. He sets two more charges, quick and efficient. 

After the third one, Ianto’s arm shoots out, the beam of his flashlight strobing across the wall, and catches Patrick across the chest. It hurts like he’s been punched, Patrick’s body still trying to go forward even after. When he opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, Ianto shakes his head. 

Slowly, the head of one of the giant slugs begins to round the corner. 

Ianto aims his gun carefully and fires three shots in short succession. Black, brackish blood explodes onto the wall, and the slug slows to a halt. Its antennae twitch twice and then it stops moving entirely. There’s a roar from down the hall. 

“Come on,” Ianto shouts, wrapping his fingers in Patrick’s sleeve and yanking. Patrick runs after him. He feels pathetically unarmed. “Jack. ETA on detonation.”

“Three minutes,” comes Jack’s voice, tinny from Ianto’s earpiece. “Building’s evacuated. Get out of there.”

“Will do.” Ianto aims his flashlight down the hall, keeping himself in front of Patrick. Hundreds of those tiny, slimy slugs creep along the walls, sinking in through the plaster. Patrick tucks his arms in tighter. Oh god, oh god, oh _god_.

There’s another crash, another deafening roar. Patrick tries to keep time in his head. Three minutes isn’t a long time. Three minutes is shorter than their shortest song. If the slugs don’t get him, the bombs definitely will. 

“Exit’s up ahead,” Ianto says. He doesn’t sound winded at all. Patrick can barely breathe. Next time Andy suggests a jog, he’s taking him up on it. “Do not try to reenter the building. When we get outside, run straight ahead as far as you can. We’ve set it to implode, but there will be shrapnel. If anything hits you, _run faster_.”

“Run,” Patrick pants in agreement. His chest feels three sizes too small, cramping over his ribs. Fire builds up in his lungs, strangling him. Oh, Jesus, he’s let himself get out of shape and it’s come back to bite him in the ass.

Ianto shoulders open the exit door, setting off blaring security alarms. He grabs Patrick and thrusts him forward into the freezing night air. It’s the best thing Patrick has ever felt in his life. He runs until his knees give out, collapsing onto the pavement. There’s ambulances and police cars parked close by, but he can’t make himself move. Every breath makes him feel sick. 

He feels the explosion before he hears it. The earth trembles, and if he weren’t already on the ground, he’s sure the shock would have knocked him off his feet. A heavy body covers his, pressing hard on his head to keep it down. The sound of the building collapsing is deafening.  
It seems to last forever. 

“You’re alright,” Ianto says when the dust clears. He helps Patrick up, hands patting over Patrick’s sides and hips. He cups Patrick’s chin and checks his eyes. “No damage?”

“I-” Patrick rubs at the back of his head and pulls back with fingers damp with blood. “Did something hit me?” Ianto winces and raises his hand. There’s gravel embedded into his palm. 

“Me, I assume,” he says. “I’m going to take you to the paramedics.” Patrick nods and lets himself be led. 

“Fuck, I thought we lost you,” Pete says as soon as Patrick’s in grabbing distance, reaching out to yank Patrick into his arms. Behind him, Joe and Andy wear matching expressions of relief. Patrick hugs back fiercely. After a moment, Ianto coughs politely and Patrick reluctantly steps back. 

Ianto takes him to one of the ambulances and assigns an officer to him. When he leaves, Patrick curls around his knees and takes deep breath. He’s alive, his band is alive, and the massive fucking slugs have been blown to smithereens. Everything is fine.

\---

Patrick takes the tea that officer Davidson gives him with a grateful smile. He holds it cupped between his palms, shivering in the cold. Somewhere along the line, someone had put a shock blanket over him. It barely keeps out the frigid air, but it's better than nothing. 

His coat is long gone. So is half a million dollars worth of equipment. He grimaces and tries not to think about all the insurance forms they're going to have to fill out when they get back stateside. He takes a sip of tea and forces it down. Chamomile. Must be the cureall to panic attacks.

Across the lot, a paramedic is shining a light into Pete's eyes, holding his chin still with gloved hands, a mirror of what Ianto had done to him. The four of them have been separated, but Patrick can see all of them from where he's sitting. Joe and Andy are underneath their own fluorescent blankets, slumped into their own cups of tea. No one looks hurt. It's enough for him. 

Next to the ruined outsides of the venue, Jack and a pretty brunette woman are talking to two officers. The woman has a cut across her cheek and a dark bruise on her jaw. She doesn't look like a policeman, but then again, neither do Jack or Ianto. Patrick idly wonders what they call plainclothes officers in Wales. Is it the same? Is it something with too many consonants? Does it matter?

The paramedic gives him one last look over, spending a long moment on the cut at the back of his head. It’s small, but it’s a bleeder. He glues the jagged edges of Patrick’s fingertip together, leaving an off-white strip over the injury, and pats him on the shoulder. Just like that, he’s good as new.

"You're free to go, Mr. Stump," Davidson tells him. His fluorescent jacket glows under the parking lights and washes his skin out. "Try to keep out of trouble for the next few days, yeah? Another good hit to the head could do you some damage."

"I'll try," Patrick says dryly. He hands the blanket over and tries not to mourn its meager offerings of warmth. He's halfway to Joe when Ianto falls into step beside him. 

"How's the head?" Ianto asks. He looks mostly unscathed, if a little dirty. The badass with the glock is gone, replaced by the mild mannered receptionist. It's almost alarming. 

"A bit sore," Patrick says, absently prodding the tender spot at the base of his skull. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it still stings when he touches it. "But I think I'll survive."

"That's what we like to hear," Jack says, clapping a hand on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick's proud to say he doesn't jump. He turns to face him and is mildly annoyed to see that Jack hasn’t got even a speck of dirt on him. 

“Did you have questions or something?” Patrick asks nervously. He thinks about the drowned slug in his bathroom. He knows it's paranoia, but it’s not like it would be the weirdest thing to happen today. 

"Would you like to come back to my flat?" Ianto asks bluntly. He straightens his jacket, ignoring the blood on his sleeve. Patrick doesn't want to know if it belongs to him or to the thing the pretty woman had stuffed into the back of the giant SUV parked down the street. "You could do with something to eat. Someone to talk to. Maybe some coffee."

"Ianto makes the best coffee in Wales," Jack says, leaning in like it's a secret. Ianto smiles, small and gracious. 

“I do what I can,” he says.

Patrick isn't stupid and Jack isn't particularly subtle, fingers straying to the damp hair at the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick fingers his phone and nods. He'll call Joe on the way. It's not like they're going to finish the show now.

"I- yeah," Patrick says. Jack’s hand drops, brushing over Patrick’s hip. "Yes."

Patrick turns on his heel and follows them, watching the sidewalk pass under his feet. He feels small between them, _is_ actually small next to them. His head reaches their shoulders, and while he’s never been scrawny, Jack has a broadness about him that makes Patrick feel positively tiny. Both of them hold their shoulders back and heads high. Patrick tries to mimic them, but isn’t sure how well he does. 

Ianto answers his phone when it rings, pressing the button on his Bluetooth to answer in crisp one word answers. Patrick can hear a woman’s voice, but he can’t make out the words. Ianto’s hand is clasped over it, covering the sound in a very intentional way. 

"Cleanup is a go," he says, looking over Patrick's head at Jack. 

“Gwen,” Jack says into his own ear piece. It blinks a steady green at him. “Take the SUV back to the Hub and go home for the night. Ianto and I are going to do some questioning.” Patrick hears a woman’s bright laughter through Ianto’s Bluetooth. 

“This way,” Ianto says, gesturing with one broad hand. Patrick takes a deep breath and follows him.

\---

“Washroom is this way,” Ianto says, even as he flips the lights on. Jack flops down onto the couch, familiar in the space. He spreads his knees wide open, his coat taking up half the cushions. The smile he flashes Patrick is nothing but lascivious. “Cloths in the cupboard above the sink. If you’d like a shower I’m sure I could find something for you to wear.” 

Patrick thinks about the slime on the walls and the ground. He’s sure there’s a thick crust of blood and dirt in his hair. He knows what he smells like after a show. Add in the running, and it’s got to be incredibly, undeniably fucking awful.

“Yes, please,” he says gratefully. Ianto smiles and opens a door for him. 

“Back in a moment. Feel free to start.”

The bathroom is cramped, the counter and the toilet and the thin shower all jammed into the tiny floor space. It’s full of clean white tile and tidy marble. Patrick looks down at where his boots are leaving mud and- things. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he begins to strip off his shirt. He’ll do it when he’s clean. 

He leaves his clothes in a filthy heap on the floor next to the toilet and steps into the shower. He’s pulling the curtain closed just as two sharp knocks on the door ring out. 

“Clothes are on the sink,” Ianto says. There’s a shuffle as he gathers up the mess Patrick’s left. “I’m just going to pop these in the wash. Call if you need anything.” 

“Thanks,” Patrick says and waits until he hears the door shut before he turns the shower on. 

The soft pressure of the hot water feels amazing, but Patrick doesn’t linger. He scrubs at his skin with the clean bar of soap in the tray, then scrubs at the bar until it doesn’t have a film of dirt over it. The glue on his finger doesn’t even budge. Ah, modern technology. His head aches a little as he washes his hair with the utilitarian shampoo Ianto uses, but it’s nothing serious. 

As he’s rinsing off, he wonders what Ianto’s trying to hide under all the plainness. Even Joe has the fruity stuff at home. 

When the water runs mostly clear, Patrick steps out of the shower and dries off. Ianto’s left him a pair of soft red sweats that are too long and a white t-shirt that smells like Irish Spring. Patrick grins when he sees the Liverpool soccer crest on the side of the pants. Glorified cashier by day, supercop by night, sports fan on his off time. The many faces of Ianto Jones. 

Patrick takes stock of himself in the mirror. His hair drips down onto the shirt, turning it a little see-through at the shoulders. His face is kind of pink from the heat, and he’s got three days worth of stubble, but otherwise he looks mostly normal. No one would ever think he’d had a run in with mutant slugs. Patrick picks up his phone and wallet, which Ianto had also left on the sink, and slides them into his pockets.

He gives himself a moment to think about the slugs and the sound of explosions in his ears and the terrifying sight of gunfire. He thinks he should be panicking, but he can’t feel anything. Maybe tomorrow when the adrenaline is gone, he’ll freak out and punch someone in the face and schedule an appointment with a stress counselor. Until then, he’s going to calm himself in the best way possible. 

“Alright, Stump,” he says to his reflection, “there’s two incredibly hot guys in the next room trying to seduce you. Do not fuck this up.” He bares his teeth at himself and takes a deep breath. “Right. Okay.” 

“You should feel privileged,” Jack says as Patrick walks barefoot into the living room. He hasn’t budged an inch as far as Patrick can tell. “Ianto doesn’t let just anyone into his clothes.”

“Some of us have standards,” Ianto says. He’s taken off his jacket, but he’s still wearing the tie and waistcoat. The dirt on his face has been scrubbed away, but the dark stains on his shirt remain. He looks up at Patrick with a conspiratorial grin. “Drink?” 

“Yes,” Patrick says quickly, thankful for the diversion. It’s been a long time since he’s gone off for a one night stand. He doesn't remember the protocol. He’s definitely never been with two people at once. It’s a growth experience. “I’m just going to-” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and steps into the little hall separating the living room and the front door. He hits four on speed dial.

“Dude, where are you?” Joe asks as soon as he answers the phone. Something crashes in the background and then there’s a shout. Patrick hopes they’re not in his room. It’s already got enough damage to make up for. “Pete’s freaking out.”

“I, uh,” Patrick looks into the living room. Jack winks at him, that big grin on display, and Patrick turns around quickly. “Captain Harkness and Mr. Jones wanted to ask me a few questions about tonight. I just wanted to let you guys know I’m okay. Promise.”

“You coming back to the hotel?” Joe asks. There’s another thump, and then Pete swears. “I will punch you in the oversized teeth, Wentz.” Patrick grins and leans against the wall. The sounds of them are like home. 

“Nah,” he says. In the living room, Ianto has set out two tumblers of amber whiskey, a third one cradled loosely in his own hand. Jack touches him casually, fingers ghosting over the knot of his tie and the curve of his wrist. The look Ianto gives him is both fond and indulgent. Well. At least they know what they’re doing. That has to count for something. “Mr. Jones is putting me up for the night.”

“I’m not asking. Not making guarantees about anyone else though,” Joe says. Patrick laughs a little. He’s not all that subtle either. “Call in the morning, yeah? I think we’re going to try to reschedule later.”

“Will do,” Patrick says. He clicks the end button before Pete can snatch the phone away and take up his time with repeated and invasive questions. He stuffs his phone into the deep pocket of Ianto’s sweats and steps back into the living room. Ianto raises his eyebrows. Patrick suddenly feels all of fourteen again, asking permission from his mom. “Sorry. Needed to check in.”

“No problem,” Jack says. He picks up one of the tumblers and holds it out. Patrick lets their fingers brush as he takes it. Jack grins. 

“I don’t keep the cabinets well stocked,” Ianto says, and he sounds actually remorseful about it. “But if you’re in need, we can order takeaway.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. Food is so, so far from his mind it isn’t even funny. He takes a sip of the whiskey and hums his approval. It’s smooth and dark on his tongue, warm as he swallows it down. Definitely the good stuff. “But thank you.” Jack pats the space on the couch next to him and Patrick dutifully sits.

“So,” he says, rubbing his thumbs against the smooth crystal of the tumbler. It’s heavy and solid in his hands. He’s pretty sure that was a conscious decision on Ianto’s part. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

“Not as often as you’d imagine,” Jack leers, laying his arm out over the back of the couch. Ianto rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away from the spot on the arm that he’s chosen as his own. His tie is just the slightest bit crooked. Patrick wants to touch it, to maybe straighten it out, but that would mean leaning over Jack, and he’s not quite there yet.

“If you’re referring to the slugs,” Ianto says, tapping the back of Jack’s hand when he tries to pull him closer by the belt loops, “it’s an unfortunate mutation. We’ve been looking for the Sweglo- master hive, if you will- for a while. With the hive gone, there shouldn’t be any more problems.” He and Jack share a look. Patrick tries not to read into it. The less he knows, the better.

Patrick drinks his whiskey.

“Are you okay?” Ianto asks. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, and if Patrick had to put money on it, he’d say that personal relations isn’t usually on Ianto’s work list. 

“Fine,” Patrick says. He takes another drink of his whiskey and stares down into the cup. “A little shaken up, but I imagine you’d be more worried if I wasn’t, right?”

“That does tend to be the case, yes,” Ianto says. 

They talk about the weather- abysmal and looking to stay that way for the next seven centuries- and the sci-fi weekender that Jack seems to think is hilarious. Ianto asks polite questions about the band and touring, topping their glasses off before any of them are actually finished.

Somewhere between round two and three, Jack’s hand lands warm and solid on Patrick’s thigh. He doesn’t pause his cheerful, ridiculous story about a vacation gone sour in Italy, even as his thumb rubs slow, sure circles over Patrick’s leg. Patrick doesn’t choke on his drink, but it’s a close thing. 

“Fun as this is,” Jack says, hand inching up to Patrick’s slowly hardening cock, “I think we’ve chatted enough. Don’t you?” Patrick opens his mouth, but words don’t come out. His tongue feels heavy and dry. He wishes there was more whiskey, but Ianto is hoarding the bottle. 

Finally, Ianto takes pity on him. He stands and removes his waistcoat, slow and precise, laying it carefully over the back of the couch. He's silent, fingers barely moving, but it's impossible to look away. Jack watches him with bright eyes, hand tightening on Patrick’s thigh. 

“Would you like the tour?” Ianto asks. He tucks two fingers into the knot of his tie and tugs. The knot comes undone on the first try. Patrick shoots up like he’s on a spring. 

“Yes,” he says, probably too quickly. “Yes, I would.” Ianto smiles, crooked teeth displaying for a brief moment, and turns away. Patrick shuffles after him. The heavy, lazy thud of Jack’s boots follow a few steps behind. Patrick’s stomach twists pleasantly. Here they go. It’s show time. He is so ready. 

The walls are mostly bare, decorated with a few paintings that could be of almost anywhere. Cool, evening rivers with bright starry skies and still lifes that were probably bought at fairs. There isn’t a single photo in sight. Everything is tidy in a way that Patrick’s familiar with. It’s hard to make a mess if you’re never home. 

The apartment isn't particularly big, but it’s got an open floor plan and big windows that look out onto the city. Ianto leads with long, easy strides that Patrick has to rush to keep up with. When Ianto pauses at the door to what Patrick can only assume is the bedroom, he runs straight into Ianto's back. 

"Shit," he bites out, tumbling back a step and straight into Jack’s arms. Smooth, Stump. Smooth. Jack’s hands curl around his shoulders and steady him. They both really are incredibly tall. "Sorry."

"No worries." Ianto shoots him a grin over his shoulder and twists the knob. 

The room is as bare as the rest of the apartment, but the plush bed pressed against the far wall is large and covered with a thick, expensive looking duvet. Patrick stares at it a little too long. It's definitely big enough for all three of them, he thinks giddily. 

Ianto removes his tie, hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. When he turns around, he places a hand very deliberately on the back of Patrick's neck and pulls him in. Patrick has to stretch onto his toes to meet him halfway. His hands curl into the soft fabric of Ianto's shirt, feeling the pink cotton wrinkling under his fingers. It feels like he’s getting away with something when Ianto doesn’t stop him. 

Ianto kisses with a sense of purpose, his mouth soft and exploring. He isn't gentle, but he doesn't press for anything other than what it is. When Patrick runs a curious tongue over the fullness of his lower lip, he opens his mouth obediently. He tastes smoky, the lingering traces of whiskey hidden behind his teeth. It’s unhurried and a little sweet, Ianto’s arms wrapping around him and pulling them flush together. 

Patrick can feel Ianto’s hardness against his hip. He presses into it and Ianto holds onto him tighter, the hand on Patrick’s neck squeezing. He tugs at Patrick’s hair lightly, and the throb at the back of Patrick’s head reminds him that he didn’t just get extremely lucky at a bar. 

The warmth of Jack closing in behind him makes Patrick pull away. A steady thrum of arousal pulses under his skin. He can feel the hard line of Jack's cock pressing against his back, see the flush rising up over Ianto's pale cheeks. He reaches out and flicks open the top three buttons of Ianto’s shirt, fingers shaking a little on the tiny bits of plastic. He’s both pleased and disappointed to see an undershirt instead of bare skin. Nothing like a well dressed man to get him in the mood. 

Jack leans in over him, hands steadying on Patrick’s waist. Patrick can’t see them kissing this close up, but he can hear the slick sounds of their tongues sliding together. It shoots straight to his cock. He nuzzles into the open collar of Ianto’s shirt, pushing it aside with his nose. He smells like sweat, like cologne and dust and old books. Patrick sucks at a smooth patch of skin even as Jack rubs up against him, pulling them all closer together.

Patrick feels trapped between them- the rock of Ianto’s body, the hard place of Jack’s- and it’s amazing. He tugs Ianto’s shirt out of his pants and smoothes the tails over his hips. Screwing up his courage- which is laughable, since he’s already way past committed to this- he runs his palm across the bulge in Ianto’s pants. 

Ianto makes a soft sound, something Patrick would have missed if he wasn’t so close. He feels the shape of his erection through the fine wool of his pants, grinding his palm down against it. Ianto bites at his mouth when Patrick pinches at the head, fingers slipping on fabric. He’s so hot, burning into Patrick’s skin. Patrick wants to wriggle free of all the arms and the hands and drop to his knees, suck Ianto in until he _cries_ , but Jack’s holding him firmly in place. 

Patrick does not whine when Ianto moves away, but it’s a close thing. He takes in the darkness of Ianto’s eyes and the red wetness of his mouth instead. They can’t be that far apart in age, but Patrick feels young next to the both of them. It’s almost novel. 

"He's hot, isn't he?" Jack asks, mouth against Patrick’s ear and one hand on Patrick's hip. His lips trail over the back of Patrick’s neck, tongue like fire. Ianto rolls his shoulders back, casually shrugging out of his shirt.

"He's standing right here," he says, smiling in a soft way that makes Patrick’s stomach go tight. Jack grins, the press of his teeth against Patrick’s neck, and digs his fingertips into Patrick's hip. "Much as I love the coat, maybe you should leave it for now."

Ianto carefully folds his shirt and places it on top of his dresser. He scruffs his plain white undershirt, arms bunching beautifully. It too is folded and placed on the dresser. Patrick’s glad they’re not somewhere that belongs to him. Home, bus, hotel room. Everything he touches turn into a mess. It’s a gift. 

Ianto’s shoulders are broad, his back corded with tight muscle. Patrick reaches out and touches a scar low on his back. It feels cooler than the rest of his skin, raised and thin. Ianto turns, but Patrick's fingers stay where they are. He tucks them into the waist of Ianto's slacks and pulls him in. He feels bold.

Actually, he feels a little like Pete.

“Sheets,” Ianto says, and Jack dutifully takes the duvet and pillows off the bed. He lays them over the back of the same chair his coat is resting on and Ianto smiles. He leans in, pressing his mouth to Patrick’s ear. His jaw is baby smooth. “Took me months to train him.”

Patrick laughs, surprised. Ianto slides his hands under Patrick’s t-shirt and pulls it off, palms caressing Patrick’s ribs on the way up. Patrick reluctantly frees his fingers from Ianto’s pants and lifts his arms over his head. Ianto folds his shirt, lays it next to his own, and leans back against the dresser.

There’s a framed photo of Timothy Dalton as James Bond just beside him. It’s the only human thing in the whole place. Looking at the suit and the gun- which is nowhere in sight, thank god- it makes a lot of sense. 

“I prefer George Lazenby, but Jack gets finicky,” Ianto says, laughing brightly at the shirt that’s thrown at him. 

“Standards?” Patrick asks, and Ianto graces him with another quick kiss. 

“They’re incredibly high,” Ianto says against his mouth. It feels like a gift. 

He likes the easy banter between them, but he’s not sure where he fits in. He knows what being on the inside of that mind meld is like, how hard it is to let anyone in. The bed thumps softly against the wall. When Patrick looks over, he sees nothing but naked skin. He’s almost pleased to notice the distinct and deliberate pile of pants and shirt on the floor. 

“He likes to watch,” Ianto says, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of Patrick’s sweats. When he tugs, Patrick takes two steps forward. It brings their stomachs together, both of them a little softer there than Jack. It’s reassuring. The soft, downy hair on Ianto’s chest and stomach tickles a little, catching on his own. “Pervert.” 

“If you weren’t so pretty, I wouldn’t be so tempted,” Jack says from the bed. He’s propped up against the headboard, naked thighs spread and hand rubbing across his flat stomach. His dick rubs against the back of his hand on every pass, but he doesn’t seem too hurried. 

“He’s got a point,” Patrick says, reaching forward to run his thumb over the plush swell of Ianto’s lower lip. His cock jumps when Ianto sucks it in, tongue sliding smooth over the pad. He knows that move. He’s _used_ that move. Doesn’t make it any less powerful. 

“Listen to the rock star,” Jack calls. Patrick opens his mouth to complain, but he figures the fond but exasperated eye roll Ianto gives him is enough. 

“Let’s give him a show then, eh?” Ianto’s voice is a low, dirty whisper. Patrick would follow that whisper into the dark. 

Ianto slides down smoothly onto his knees, dragging Patrick’s sweats down. Patrick steps out of them, letting Ianto lift his legs one after the other. He always feels a little ridiculous when he’s naked, but the rough, wide palms on his legs give him something else to think about. If no one’s backed out yet, it doesn’t seem likely they will over a little extra pudge.

The warm heat of Ianto’s mouth crests over his stomach, gentle over the scrapes and bruises collecting there. He takes his time, tongue smoothing over Patrick’s skin and teeth worrying the soft places of his hips. Patrick twists a hand into the softness of Ianto’s hair and then removes it. He thinks about Jack on the bed, about his _view_ , and has to stop himself from giggling. 

Ianto must feel the tension of it in his stomach because he looks up, mouth curled up into a grin. He brushes his thumb over the crease of Patrick’s thigh. Patrick leans into him, trying not to be the guy that’s overly insistent to get his dick sucked, but. Well. Ianto’s mouth is quite nice. He rocks his hips hopefully. 

“He’s a rotten tease,” Jack says. There’s a hitch in his breath, even under the cajoling. Patrick takes a glance at him and is rewarded with the sight of Jack lazily jerking himself off. He waggles his eyebrows. It’s something no naked man should ever do, but somehow he makes it charming. The bastard. 

“You love it, sir,” Ianto says, the words muffled against Patrick’s stomach. When he pulls back, his cheek drags across Patrick’s cock. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. 

“Do you-” Patrick chokes a little when Ianto wraps lean fingers around him. Ianto rubs his thumb against the head and Patrick shudders. “Do you always call him sir?” 

“As often as I can,” Ianto says cheekily before licking a hot line up Patrick’s cock. 

Patrick likes blowjobs. Patrick _loves_ blowjobs. Giving them, getting them. They’re intimate in a way fucking isn’t, requiring a whole different set of skills. Ianto has many of those skills. Possibly all of them. Possibly some that Patrick needs to ask tips on. Oh, god. 

He rests a hand on Ianto’s shoulder, feeling the muscles bunching and tries to steady himself. He watches his the head of his cock slide between Ianto’s lips. Jesus, it’s warm and wet and Ianto’s clever tongue flicks against the underside in a way that makes his knees feel weak. It’s been too long since he’s gotten laid. 

Ianto gives head the same way he kisses: slow, methodical, a little vicious. Patrick brings his free hand up to his mouth and bites down on the thick of his palm, too used to getting off near too many people not to bother with it. The scrape of his own teeth makes it better somehow. 

Patrick’s hips jerk, just a little, when Ianto’s hand brushes against his balls, the back of his knuckles dragging over the heavy weight of them. Ianto sucks him all the way to the top, looking up at him before pulling off with a soft, slick sound. When he presses the flat of his tongue to the base of Patrick’s cock and drags it down, Patrick bites harder into his palm. 

His injured finger throbs angrily in protest, but Patrick does not give one solid fuck. He will gladly bleed if Ianto just keeps licking him right there. 

“No need to be quiet for us,” Jack says. He spreads his thighs open a little wider when Patrick meets his eyes, proud in his nudity in a familiar way. He knocks on the wall with his free hand, and gives a wink. “Thick as steel.”

“Good to-” Patrick gasps around his fist as Ianto pulls at his cock, slicked by spit. “Good to know.” Ianto bites the thick part of his thigh, teeth there and then gone. He soothes it with his tongue, his fingers curling wetly around the head of Patrick’s cock. 

Carefully, Ianto laves a path over his balls, sucking one then the other gently into his mouth. Patrick drops his fist and wraps it in the soft curls of Ianto’s hair again. Screw Jack’s view. He tries not to press him forward, but Ianto’s so easy to lead, quick to follow wherever Patrick moves him. When Patrick holds him still, a little drunk on the power of it, Ianto mouths dutifully at the base of his cock, looking up at him with eyes blown almost black. 

“Come here,” Jack says gruffly. Ianto pulls off of him almost immediately, ignoring the unintentional clench of Patrick’s fingers in his hair. Patrick whines high in his throat. Jack, he decides, is _awful_ and must be stopped. Ianto kisses his wrist and rises smoothly to his feet. 

“Go on,” he says softly. He wipes away the slickness at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. His cock is pressed up against the fly of his pants, straining the fabric. It’s not fair, Patrick thinks, even as backs towards the bed. 

Jack helps him up, copping a quick feel as he pulls Patrick into the cradle of his thighs. He’s broad and solid and hot like a furnace. The head of his cock rubs damp and warm where it rests against the small of Patrick’s back. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist and smooths one palm over Patrick’s stomach like he’s consoling him. Maybe he is, Patrick thinks as he looks at Ianto. 

Unfazed by their mutual gaze, Ianto undoes his belt and the three tiny buttons holding his pants closed. His dick pushes the material out, the damp black satin of his underwear peeking out between the folds. He shoves both down and steps out of them. Every movement he makes is deliberate. It says something about him, Patrick thinks, and immediately drops his train of thought when Ianto bends to pick them up.

He feels Jack’s head tilting with his, angling to get a better look. Knuckles graze against his cock and Patrick moans softly. As Ianto crawls into bed with them, Patrick’s glad to notice that the heap of wool on the nightstand isn’t nearly as neat as the rest of it. 

Patrick grabs for him, nearly knocking him over as he drags him in close. He’s done being passive. He’s going to get his mouth on Ianto’s cock or make an ass of himself trying. Jack’s chest rumbles against Patrick’s back as he laughs.

“Eager?” He asks, even as Ianto kneels up in front of him, his legs fitting neatly between theirs. 

“You have no idea,” Patrick mutters. 

Ianto’s cock is blunt and wide, the rude red head peeking out behind his foreskin and- oh, that’s new. Patrick can work with new. He wraps his hand around the shaft and gives a few experimental pulls, watching as Ianto’s foreskin covers and retracts from the head of his cock. It feels different than his own, smoother than jerking himself off, but he figures the mechanics have to be mostly the same. 

He leans in and traces his tongue around the tip, dipping it into the space between skin and glans. Ianto moans, free and loud. The distinct taste of cock and salt and coppery sweat fills Patrick’s mouth and he dives in. 

From day one, Joe’s accused him of having an oral fixation. Between pen lids and straws and hoodie strings all shoved between his teeth almost constantly, Patrick can’t really argue. He loves the feel of something against his tongue, weighing it down and filling his mouth. Ianto gives him that and more. 

He sucks him off in earnest, hand wrapped around the base of him and jerking, feeling the strange slide of skin over shaft. It’s a mindless pleasure. There’s nothing to think about except the way Ianto’s hands fall onto his shoulders, the way his dick jumps every time Patrick does something particularly good.

He’s generous with the sounds, with the whispered encouragements. His accent’s thicker, and Patrick can only make out a word here or there, but the rumble of his voice pulses under Patrick’s skin. He hums around the head of Ianto’s cock, and Ianto swears beautifully. 

Ianto gropes blindly for Patrick’s free hand, bringing it up to his mouth when he finds it. Patrick groans around him when he sucks in two fingers, mimicking the rhythm Patrick’s set on his cock. It’s an endless loop of sensation that makes him dizzy. 

After a moment- too soon, way too soon, _no no no_ \- Jack pries Ianto’s fingers from his wrist and leads Patrick’s hand between Ianto’s legs. He presses Patrick’s spit-slick fingers into him easily, guiding him in all the way to the last knuckle. Ianto chews his lip red, hips jerking back. Fuck, but he’s tight and hot on the inside. 

Patrick fucks him slowly, drawing it out the same way Ianto had done to him. Fair play. Ianto rocks between his hand and his mouth in tight, controlled waves. He’s so _responsive_. Patrick had expected him to be- well, he’s not really sure. Stuffy, maybe. Patrick lets himself have one laugh before taking him in as deep as he can. 

“Fuck,” Ianto hisses. He folds over, hands locking behind Patrick’s head. “ _Fuck_.” Patrick pushes his fingers in deeper as he drags his mouth back to the tip, feeling the weight of Ianto’s balls against his wrist. He ducks his head to lick the space between them and his fingers. There, he tastes of musk and _man_ and Patrick wants to eat him alive. 

“Can he fuck you?” Jack asks, breath hot against the back of Patrick’s neck. It makes his head spin. Patrick sits up and presses his face to Ianto’s thigh. It shakes under his cheek. 

“Yes,” he says. “God yes.” He gives the head of Ianto’s cock one last suck, revelling in the way Ianto groans, before letting his fingers slip free. Ianto’s eyes close for a moment before he reaches into the nightstand. 

“Regular boy scout, me,” Ianto says, waving a thin bottle of lube and a condom. Patrick’s expecting a quip from Jack, but feels teeth on the sensitive space below his ear instead. 

Decisively, he twists his head and presses his mouth to Jack’s. For a moment Jack pauses, like he’s surprised, before grabbing him and hauling him in. If Ianto kisses like he’s planning attack, Jack is the air raid. His tongue presses against the roof of Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick knows, _knows_ he’s hunting for the taste of Ianto inside him. 

When Jack lets him go, he feels like he’s been suckerpunched. 

“Alright?” Ianto asks, slick fingers sliding down past Patrick’s balls. He’s wearing a faintly amused expression. Patrick’s not sure how they manage to ever leave the apartment. 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out. He rocks his hips up towards Ianto’s hand and sucks in a breath when one thick finger enters him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been with a guy. He’s missed it. He’s missed the heady sweat-musk-dark smell, the sharp brush of stubble, the rush of being held down by someone bigger than him. He loves women, but he loves this- that, there, the brush of clever little fingers opening him up- almost as much. 

Jack smoothes Patrick’s hair out of his face. His thumb rests over Patrick’s lower lip and Patrick opens his mouth around it, copying Ianto almost shamelessly. Jack grins, rocking it forward, fucking Patrick’s mouth in time with Ianto. 

Ianto sucks sweet kisses into the valley of Patrick’s hip as he presses in a second finger. Patrick moans and sinks into the cradle of Jack’s body. Jack frees his thumb from Patrick’s mouth, running it over Patrick’s jaw. He trails it down over Patrick’s throat, through the damp curl of his chest hair, and pinches a nipple gently. 

It feels like an eternity, there between them. Ianto moves and Jack counters and Patrick feels like the stretched battlefield they’re playing on. Not that he’s complaining, he thinks as Jack’s fist closes around his cock. Ianto leans down and licks the spaces between Jack’s fingers. 

They’re going to kill him. 

“Can you take him?” Jack asks, nipping at Patrick’s ear. He slides out from behind him, settling in beside Ianto instead. Patrick flops back onto the mattress, completely undignified but too fuck ready to care. The sheets feel cool and slick on his back, relief from the heat of Jack’s body. 

“Yeah.” Patrick arches up towards him. He wants Jack’s skin against his again. He wants to sink his teeth into the thick of Jack’s bicep and wrap his mouth around the fat head of Jack’s cock. But every time he reaches out, Jack dances away. “Please.”

Ianto bends his head as he pulls his fingers out, brushing a kiss over Patrick’s thigh. When he looks up, his eyes are near bottomless. Patrick spreads his thighs wide, watching as Ianto rolls a condom on and slicks himself up. 

Ianto shuffles closer, hooking Patrick’s legs around his hips. He rubs the slick head of his cock between Patrick’s cheeks, teasing across his hole, pushing forward enough for a taste before backing off again. Grumbling, Patrick tries to thrust up against him, but Ianto widens the stance of his knees, and suddenly Patrick has lost all control. It’s maddening. It’s god damn perfect. 

Ianto presses into him slowly, curling down over him like a shield, hands pressed to either side of Patrick’s head. Patrick wraps his fingers around the thick, strained muscles of his wrists and holds on tight. For the first time in days, he feels overheated, sweat sticking to his skin and dampening his hair to his head. Jack pets his leg gently, the leather of his wristband almost cold next to the heat of his skin.

“Look at you,” he says quietly. Patrick doesn’t know which one of them he’s talking to, but it really, really doesn’t matter. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to adjust to Ianto inside him. He feels like a tension wire, ready to snap in half at the barest hint of motion. Ianto strokes his chest gently, cooing at him with soft, wordless sounds. Patrick focuses on the roughness of his fingertips. The bed shifts as Jack moves away from him. 

“You with us?” Ianto asks. His voice wavers, just a little. Patrick’s relieved by it. Proud of it. Unshakable Ianto unable to hold in a tremor. It’s like a badge. Patrick opens his eyes and digs his heels into Ianto’s calves. Their skin sticks together, pulls at the hair on his legs. It’s a good focus point. 

“Yes,” Patrick says. He grabs Ianto’s hand and links their fingers. It’s intimate, something he hadn’t planned on, but Ianto just squeezes his hand and rests them on the bed. 

“Glad to hear it,” Jack murmurs as he slides behind Ianto. 

Jack’s hands look absolutely giant on Ianto’s hips, dark against his skin. He pulls and Ianto slides slowly out of him, dragging groans from both of them. When Jack pushes Ianto forward again, Patrick swears.

Jack sets the pace, using Ianto’s full body to fuck him. It’s hot in a completely abstract way that makes Patrick’s cock jerk, precome dribbling weakly out onto his belly. Jack presses against Ianto’s back, the slick sound of their skin slipping together obscene. Ianto tips his head back onto Jack’s shoulder and lets the effort of Jack’s hips and hands guide him.

Patrick fists the sheets and tries to rock into them, but the wide open splay of his thighs leaves him without leverage. Jack frees one hand and reaches between them, fingers skirting around the stretched skin of Patrick’s hole. One finger teases at sliding inside, but Jack backs away at the last moment. Patrick’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. 

Patrick grabs at his own cock, desperate for friction, but Ianto bats his hand away before he can get anywhere. He hates both of them deep down in the depths of his soul. 

“Hands off,” Jack says gleefully, his mouth open and slick against Ianto’s neck. He bites down on the tense line of it and Ianto shudders hard enough that Patrick feels it all the way inside him.

“Please,” Patrick whines, trying not to feel mortified. He’s so hard it hurts, an ache that starts in his balls and settles into his stomach. He feels so full, his insides widening past the limits of his body. It’s like being high, his brain fuzzy but his senses sharp. 

“Best- Best to listen to him,” Ianto stutters out. He reaches back and threads his fingers through Jack’s hair. It’s like watching porn, like being in Jack’s place from earlier, only so, so much more. Jack sucks on the spreading red patch of skin on Ianto’s throat and hums. Smug bastard.

Jack leans into them, pushing Ianto down until his chest brushes Patrick’s. Ianto’s cock sinks deeper, his hips spreading Patrick’s thighs impossibly wider. Patrick arches up into him, dick sliding against the soft, dark hair on Ianto’s belly. He feels like he’s going to burst.

Ianto kisses him, wet and sloppy and dirty. Patrick clings to his shoulders, digging his nails into soft skin. He tries to focus on the slide of Ianto’s tongue against his, but every time Jack pushes Ianto’s hips forward, the pressure of Ianto’s stomach against his cock makes him jerk.

Ianto nips his lower lip, smiling when Patrick barks out a surprised laugh. The weight of both of them on top of him makes it hard to breathe, but Patrick kind of likes it. For all that he’s supposed to be the grounded one, more often than not he feels like he’s floating away. The band, the music, taking care of Pete. If he stands still too long, something will inevitably break.

It’s nice to finally just exist in the moment.

Ianto rolls his hips, entirely free of Jack’s hold, and Patrick lunges up against him. He presses his mouth to the dark spot on Ianto’s throat and bites down, teeth worrying skin. He thinks he can taste Jack on him, sweet and dark. Ianto moans softly, his breath ghosting across Patrick’s jaw. 

“Cheeky bastards,” Jack says fondly. There’s the sharp sound of the flat of his hand slapping against Ianto’s ass- the resulting jerk of Ianto’s body sending sparks up Patrick’s spine- and then Jack moves away.

“Gets better when he’s fussy,” Ianto whispers, rolling his hips in smooth thrusts that make Patrick see spots. 

Theoretically, Patrick should be able to breathe a little easier with Jack’s weight gone, but he feels like he’s been running for miles. He licks the sweat from the tender space behind Ianto’s ear. His thighs ache and his dick throbs angrily. He’s going to be feeling this for days. 

Ianto’s head falls to Patrick’s shoulder, his chest pressing down until he’s barely holding his own weight. Patrick peeks behind him, breathing in the dying scent of his cologne, and sees Jack carefully unwrapping a second condom. 

“Alright?” Ianto asks again, breathless, his vowels running together. It’s almost precious that he’s still asking. Patrick nods and bites at his throat again, tonguing the skin between his teeth. It’s going to be one hell of a hickey. Patrick feels like he’s going to shake apart if someone doesn’t move soon.

Ianto’s arms go tight when Jack slides three fingers into him. Patrick strokes the damp, curling hair at Ianto’s nape and tries not to move as Ianto‘s hips twitch against his. He kisses the curve of Ianto’s jaw, feeling the way it clenches as Jack thrusts roughly into him. 

“If you would, sir,” Ianto says a bare moment later, voice raw and broken. Jack laughs, full and free, and slaps Ianto’s ass again. The sound echoes off the walls. 

Jack wraps one arm around Ianto’s chest, the leather of his wristband sliding cooly over Patrick’s stomach, and pulls him back. He keeps his arm there, fingers wrapping around the curve of Ianto’s opposite shoulder. Patrick instantly feels bereft, his skin suddenly too cold where he’d had all the heat of Ianto’s body before. He’s suddenly distant from them and he hates it.

“Go on, then,” Jack says, tugging Ianto harder against him. His thumb rubs over the bump of Ianto’s adam’s apple, the tip of it digging into the soft underside of his chin. When he presses, Ianto’s mouth snaps shut. “You want to be in control so badly.”

Ianto rolls his hips as best he can, pinned between them. Jack keeps his torso trapped, his head immobilized. He gasps for breath, eyes closed and chest heaving. Patrick slides a hand up Ianto’s stomach, feeling the soft layer of fat over the bunching of his muscles. When he digs his fingers in nails first, Ianto thrusts harder. The headboard smacks against the wall, and Patrick hopes Jack’s right about it being soundproof.

Jack talks, his voice slow and deep and rough. Patrick can barely make out the words, but it doesn’t matter. He knows it’s all first rate filthy. Ianto squirms, mouth dropped open and tongue slipping out to run over his lip. Christ, they’re beautiful. 

Patrick sneaks his hand down, watching Jack’s face as he finally, finally gets his fingers around his cock. He bites back a sob of relief. His cock pulses in his hand, so hard it’s starting to hurt. Every slow, smooth stroke inside him pushes his dick up into his fist and makes him groan. He’s the end of their circuit, and the electricity that shoots up through him is crushing. 

“He’s bad like you,” Jack says against Ianto’s cheek, loud enough for Patrick to hear. Patrick absolutely does not stop jerking himself off. If Jack makes him stop, he will _cry_ all over Ianto’s nice sheets. Jack snaps his hips forward and Ianto and Patrick squeak out matching sounds. “Help him along. I know you want to.”

Ianto’s hand fumbles towards Patrick’s cock, his arm still trapped under Jack’s. He tangles his fingers with Patrick’s, tightening Patrick’s grip and speeding up his jerky, uncoordinated rhythm. The lack of reach of his arm leaves him twisting his fingers over the head of Patrick’s cock over and over again. It’s just the right side of too much.

Jack’s thrusts are hard and even, a waltz over their frantic techno. Patrick can’t breathe. If he breathes, he’s going to say something incredibly stupid. Or start begging. He's not sure which is worse.

Patrick feels his orgasm building up inside him, his balls drawing up and his shoulders and stomach and thighs going tight. He’s so, so, close and it’s killing him. He moans, too loud, unable to hold it in. He thrashes, trying desperately to drag Ianto closer with their tangled legs. Taking pity on him, Jack tucks his hands under Patrick’s knees and pulls him forward, using him as leverage to pound harder into Ianto. 

And that is the thing Patrick needs. His back peels off the bed as he comes. It’s ripped out of him, thick pulses that coat their fingers and trickle onto his belly. Ianto keeps stroking him through it, fingers pinching at the sensitive head of his dick. Between that and the cock still working inside him, Patrick feels overloaded. 

He can feel it all the way down into his bones when Ianto comes. Ianto’s hips jerk against his, offbeat to Jack, and then he goes suddenly rigid. He moans softly, and it’s absolutely, breathtakingly _gorgeous_. Patrick wants to bottle it up, save it for a long night alone. 

Jack keeps going. 

He lets Ianto slide bonelessly down onto Patrick but keeps a slick hand under Patrick’s knee. He braces his other hand on the sweaty skin of Ianto’s back, holding them together. Ianto kisses Patrick sloppily, all wet mouth and lazy tongue and sticky hand in his hair. Patrick hangs onto him. Every thrust of Jack’s hips makes him shake. Aftershocks, he thinks somewhere in the back of his brain. He’s the ruined city, and Jack’s the god damn earthquake. 

Just when he thinks he’s going to have to cry uncle, sore body and overworked nerves screaming at him, Jack gives one last thrust, nails digging into Patrick’s skin hard enough to draw blood. Ianto kisses him again, hiding his groan inside Patrick’s mouth. After a moment, Jack falls onto them, heavy and loose limbed. Patrick’s smashed into the mattress, but there is literally nowhere else he would rather be. 

“Show off,” Ianto mumbles a few minutes later, his damp mouth against Patrick’s chest. When Jack laughs, Patrick can feel it rumbling through both of them. 

It takes a moment to untangle themselves, too many arms and legs wound together. Jack backs away, ignoring Ianto’s pathetic moan, and ties off his condom. Patrick hears it hit the bottom of the waste bin, somewhere far away. Carefully, slowly, Ianto rolls off of him. Patrick winces as his dick slides out. That’s always the worst part, he thinks muzzily. Like a saint, Jack takes care of that condom too.

Patrick’s thighs protest as he finally, finally straightens them out, the soreness spreading into his hips and knees. Walking is going to be awful. Patrick curls around Ianto as Jack leaves them for the bathroom. Without the pressing need to get off, exhaustion hits him hard.

Ianto strokes his hair, and Patrick doesn’t even care that he’s going to have to take a second shower in the morning. Or tonight, whenever they kick him out of bed. He really hopes they let him stay, even if he gets banished out to the couch. Every part of him feels wrung out and rubbery, and if he has to get back to the hotel on his own he’s going to pass out on the street.

He listens to the sound of Jack turning off lights and checking locks. Ianto’s chest rises and falls steadily under his head. It’s comfortable, and Patrick finds himself drifting. 

Some hazy time later, he feels the warmth of a washcloth passing over his stomach and thighs, Jack’s hand wriggling between him and Ianto to clean him off. Ianto hums absently, one arm trapped under Patrick, the other around Patrick’s shoulder. 

Jack tucks a pillow under each of their heads, shushing them as they mumble sleepy complaints. The quilt is cool and soft as it drags up over Patrick’s legs. It’s nice, he thinks drowsily, to be the one being covered instead of doing the covering. 

Eventually, Jack crawls in behind him. The bed is big enough for all of them to stretch out a little, but Patrick likes the press of them hedging him in. He’s always loved a good cuddle. 

“Go to sleep,” Jack whispers. He brushes his lips over Ianto’s forehead, and then again over Patrick’s. He holds them both, solid as a rock. Patrick buries his face to Ianto’s shoulder and does as he’s told. 

\---

Patrick wakes up to soft sunlight filtering in through the curtains. Ianto is gone, his space on the mattress rapidly cooling, but Jack’s back is pressed firmly against his. He lets himself enjoy the warmth of him. The only person he’s woken up to recently is Pete. It leaves a lot to be desired.

There’s a soft noise in the doorway. Patrick cracks his eyes open. If he squints, he can kind of make out the soft shape of Ianto’s naked shoulders. He yawns and rubs his eyes until he can see properly. His legs are definitely sore, and if he moves just right he can still feel Ianto inside him. Yeah, he thinks, he definitely needs to hook up with dudes more often. 

Ianto looks as comfortable in just his underwear as he does in a suit. He tucks the blankets in around Jack- swift, easy movements that suggest familiarity- and tips his head toward the living room. Patrick carefully shimmies off the edge of the bed and walks naked across the room to grab the sweats on the dresser. Ianto politely turns away while Patrick pulls them on.

The silence in the apartment is comforting. Ianto gently closes the door behind Patrick and lights the lamp farthest from it. The walls look even more bare in the daylight. Ianto leads him into the kitchen, clicking on the overhead light as he goes. Patrick blinks into the brightness.

“Coffee?” Ianto asks. He’s already turning the sleek silver machine in the corner on. Patrick’s glad Pete hasn’t gotten a chance to meet him. He’d either have tried to steal him or his shiny coffee machine, and Patrick’s got the feeling both would end up with Jack making him cry.

Patrick watches him move around the kitchen, chin balanced on his palm. He doesn’t hide his admiration of Ianto’s smooth muscles and pale, pale skin. It’s nice not to be the most translucent one in the room for a change. Ianto pulls three mugs down and Patrick watches his biceps stretch and bunch. 

“You’re almost as bad as him,” Ianto says fondly without looking back. Patrick laughs. He only feels a little rush of embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” he says, not actually sorry at all. 

Ianto shrugs one shoulder, the lean muscles shifting delightfully under his skin. He pours the coffee and sets one of the mugs in front of Patrick. He doesn't sit, choosing instead to lean back against the counter. He’s still, but Patrick imagines he’s the type that needs to be moving non-stop, eyes to the door. He understands that. 

The coffee is sweet without sugar and just on the right side of too hot. Pete can never, _ever_ find out.

“You don’t really work in a tourist shop, do you?” Patrick asks. Ianto smiles, his slight overbite making him look all of sixteen years old. Patrick would feel dirty about it if he couldn’t still see the gun held steady and sure in Ianto’s hand every time he closes his eyes.

“Not exactly, no,” he allows. He takes a sip of his coffee and the steam turns his cheeks a soft pink. Patrick’s going to be a little sad to leave this quiet little pocket of the world. 

“Do I want to know, or will you have to kill me?” Patrick asks. His laughter dies a little as Ianto's eyes meet his over the rim of his mug.

"You really don't want to know,” Ianto says eventually. Patrick nods and takes another sip of his coffee.

He thinks he should probably be afraid. Ianto had shot one of those- those massive fucking slugs with pinpoint accuracy and Jack had detonated a bomb. _Several_ bombs. But for some reason- possibly the orgasm, he can’t be entirely sure- he feels safe here with them. If anything, they’re the most competent people he’s ever met.

He has always had a thing for competence.

Ianto fixes them a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, apologizing again for the lack of proper nutrition. He sets out three plates, makes another pot of coffee, and pulls the toast just as the creaking sounds of Jack getting out of bed filter in through the kitchen. The timing is almost creepily accurate.

“Pants,” he calls, and the sound of footsteps pause before retreating. 

“How long have you been together?” Patrick asks. He wonders exactly how many naked breakfasts there have been at this table. 

Jack wanders in, hair sticking up at the back of his head and underwear riding low on his hips, sleep heavy hands making a familiar grabbing motion. Ianto sighs and passes him a mug. It’s like looking into a mirror. Pete can meet Jack, Patrick decides. They’ll either end up punching each other in the face or making out. Either works for him. 

“Long enough,” Ianto sighs. The way he looks at Jack when he thinks he isn’t being watched is both heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. Patrick pretends not to notice, and they pretend that they don’t know what he’s doing. 

They eat in friendly silence. As far as morning afters go, this has to be best case scenario. 

Patrick can’t help looking at the dark, massive bruise climbing its way up Ianto’s throat. It’s gone almost black in the center, radiating out to a soft pink. It’s the size of a baseball at least, and Patrick’s sure that he’s got to feel it every time he moves his head. He thinks about his mouth there and feels a curl of arousal. 

He wonders how tactful it would be to ask for a morning send-off. Then he looks at Jack, who grins toothily at him. Patrick remembers the intensity of their solitary kiss and wants it again. Now. Right now. There’s a lot that can be done with three willing bodies. 

“So, Patrick,” Jack starts, leaning in against the table. Ianto sighs and bends to collect the plates. He doesn’t even flinch when Jack palms his ass through his boxer briefs. Patrick could definitely live in this for a few more hours. 

“So, Jack,” Patrick parrots back. He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows, challenging and hoping to be challenged. Jack’s eyes follow the slide of his tongue. He slides his calf against Patrick’s under the table, thick hair catching against Patrick’s. It’s such a high school flirty move that Patrick laughs. 

“He’s shameless,” Ianto says, like he’s read Patrick’s mind. Looking at him, with his arms folded and his lips quirked, Patrick thinks he might have. “Once, he did the popcorn thing at the cinema.”

“You loved it,” Jack says sweetly. He hooks his leg around Patrick’s and drags him closer, chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. Patrick presses their knees together and feels the flex of Jack’s thigh against his own. 

“There was fake butter in my hair for a week.” Ianto levels a look at them that is probably meant to be stern, but he’s still rumpled from sleep and sex and Patrick can’t take it seriously at all. His snub nose crinkles delicately. 

“Good for the scalp,” Jack says. He plucks at Patrick’s sweats, snapping the waist against his stomach. 

Patrick’s half-hard, but there’s no rush for anything. He likes this. The flirting and the touching and the broad grins. He’s sure that if he tried hard enough, he could get the day off. Call in horny. 

“I’m sure,” Ianto says dryly. He looks at Patrick, his eyes dark, and cocks his hip. It’s ridiculous and hot, and Patrick’s sure that Ianto knows exactly what he’s doing. “When-”

One of the phones abandoned on the table beeps three times, shrill and piercing in the quiet. Immediately Jack sits up, fingers pressing buttons and mouth drawn into a thin line. All pretense of flirting disappears. He’s the Captain again. Patrick tries not to be disappointed. He scoots his chair back to its proper place and takes a drink of his cooled coffee. 

“Gwen?” Ianto asks. Jack nods once. Patrick thinks about the slugs and the splintering explosion, and all the soft, slow contentment fades out of him. 

“Take Patrick back to the hotel and check in when you’re done.” Jack pushes up from the table and marches to the bedroom. 

“I can get back on my own,” Patrick says, but Ianto shakes his head. “Or I can call someone.”

“It’s easier if I take you,” Ianto says. There’s something about the way he says it that makes Patrick’s skin crawl. Safer, he thinks. It’ll be safer if Ianto takes him. There’s a bang, and then Jack’s gone without a word. 

They dress quickly, Patrick finding his clothes piled on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. Jack’s doing, messy and last second. He tucks his socks into his pockets and pulls his boots on without lacing them. Parts of the soles have been dissolved, and the toe of one is almost gone. He’s suddenly thrilled that he wasn’t wearing sneakers. It’s another thing to add to the budget. 

When he turns around, Ianto’s already in pressed slacks and a buttoned up dress shirt. A pale blue tie and dark jacket are draped over his arm. He tucks his bluetooth over his ear and grabs his keys from the bowl on the dresser.

“Right,” he says. 

He pats his pockets, takes a quick glance around the room, and hesitates before opening the top drawer of his nightstand. Patrick is not surprised to see the gun he takes out. He watches Ianto check the safety, hands moving confidently over dark metal. It’s loaded, Patrick thinks. It’s the same one that killed the slug in the venue.

“Lot of criminals in the tourist business?” Patrick asks through his tight throat. Ianto flashes him teeth before tucking the gun into a pocket. The fine fabric of his pants bulges around it. Patrick wants to make a joke- something about the bulge in his pants last night- but he can’t make the words come out.

“You have no idea,” Ianto says, another echo. “Have everything?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, even as he grabs his phone and wallet from the night stand. His heart skips as he remembers the sound of explosions. The high has worn off. Christ, he should have listened to all of Marcus’ stranger danger talks. 

Ianto hustles him out the front door, locking up with sure, quick hands. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, and the bruise on his throat peeks out. It’s hard to see this man as the same one who’d held Patrick through the night. Both of them, Ianto and Jack, they change faces so fast he’s surprised they don’t get whiplash. 

Patrick mostly remembers the way to the car lot, but he stays behind Ianto just in case. He’s ready to escape Cardiff. His heart can’t take the tension. 

“When you get back,” Ianto says when he slips into the driver seat, “stay inside. Keep close to your friends.” He reaches over Patrick to open the glove box and places his gun inside it. It’s a sign of trust that Patrick will not take for granted. 

“Is it the slugs?” Patrick asks. He remembers the slimy, fat thing in his sink. They weren’t just in the venue. They were miles away in the plumbing. The eggs in his stomach suddenly feel like too much. Ianto smiles faintly.

“No,” he says. The car rumbles to life under his fingers. He pulls out of the garage and onto the street. “Those are gone now, I promise.” 

Patrick watches the city pass by, staring at the pedestrians. They have no idea that there’s something coming. He doesn’t know if it’s better expecting something or being blissfully ignorant. Ianto speeds, but not a single one of the cops they pass even attempt to pull them over. One waves, even. Patrick doesn’t ask. 

Ianto pulls to a stop in front of the hotel, pushing the car into park. Patrick stares at the doors and tries to shove back the fear clawing its way into his throat. The safest place is where he is. Ianto lays a hand on his arm. It’s large and warm, and Patrick knows he doesn’t have the time to spare, but he’s so incredibly grateful for it. 

“Stay inside for a few hours,” Ianto says quietly. He presses a quick kiss to Patrick’s forehead. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. Can’t be anything too awful if he can smile. Right? Right. “You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks.” Patrick opens the car door. He wants to linger, even if he knows he can’t. “If you’re ever in Chicago-”

“Doubtful,” Ianto says curtly. He touches his Bluetooth and Patrick gives up the moment as lost. Ianto looks up at him and the stern, careful expression on his face fades, just a little. “We don’t do much travelling. Tourist season’s always around the corner.” 

Patrick slides out of the car. He watches until it disappears down the road, and then looks over his shoulder. Inside. Right. 

\---

“I swear to god, if you wander off one more time, I’m going to handcuff you to the bus,” Pete says, launching himself across the room before Patrick’s all the way inside. Patrick stumbles under his weight, tripping back into the hall, and his sore thighs protest. 

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. He gives Pete a quick squeeze, breathing in his awful smell of bleach and sweat, before shoving him off. “Where are Joe and Andy?” Pete shrugs. He keeps a hand on Patrick, grabbing his arm and his shoulder and his hip like he’s afraid Patrick will float off if he doesn’t hold on.

“I think Joe’s napping?” He looks down the hall and frowns. “Andy said he wanted to go on a run, but I think the weather’s too crappy even for him.”

“Can you call them?” Patrick asks, stepping around him to get inside his room. He looks out the window, but Ianto’s car is long gone. “Mr. Jones said we should stay inside. Together.” When he looks back, Pete’s gone pale. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. “Does it have to do with last night?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick answers honestly. Outside, Cardiff looks the same as it always has. He wonders how many times Jack and Ianto have run off to save it. “Please, can you just get them?” He looks at the open door of the bathroom and changes his mind. He doesn’t want to be in here. “Your room? Five minutes?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. He frowns, reaching out to touch Patrick one more time, but leaves before his hand connects. 

Patrick gathers up his stuff from the corners of the room and jams them into his bag. He lingers outside the bathroom for a long while, looking at the broken sink. The hole has gotten bigger, almost eating away the whole thing, but the mess on the ground has been cleaned up. Pete or housecleaning, he can’t figure it out. 

“They’re gone,” Patrick says firmly to himself. Ianto promised. “They’re gone.” Still, he hurries through grabbing his toiletries and Pete’s unused razor. He feels better once the door is closed behind him. 

He waits outside of Pete’s room, cradling his bag in his arms. The wave of relief he feels when Pete comes down the hall leading Andy and Joe in single file is strong enough to make his knees feel weak. 

Pete unlocks the door with his key and they shuffle in together. Patrick peeks into the bathroom and is glad to see that it looks like a hotel bathroom should. Mostly. Pete’s gotten dirt on everything, but that’s not unusual.

“So,” Andy says, flopping down onto the chair near the window. “What’s going on?”

“Captain Harkness got a call this morning about something out there,” Patrick says, and then immediately wonders if that’s an incriminating statement. From the look Pete gives him, he doesn’t care. “Mr. Jones said it would be best if we stayed in for the next few hours. Together.”

“Then we’ll hang out together,” Joe says with a shrug. 

It’s pandering and Patrick knows it’s pandering, but that’s okay. He needs it. Patrick kicks off his boots and lays across the unmade bed, ready for it when Pete flops down directly on top of him. 

“What happened last night?” Pete asks. “The police took us outside and wouldn’t tell us where you were, or if you were alive, and then the building fucking exploded. I thought you were still in there.” Patrick wraps his arms around him and holds on. It didn’t matter how old they got, sometimes it was nice to just be reassured that his best friend was there. 

“He punched an officer in the face,” Andy adds disapprovingly. “You’re lucky you’re not in jail.”

“I fell into the basement,” Patrick says sheepishly. “Captain Harkness found me and hid me, and then Mr. Jones led me out of the building.” It’s the most cut down version he can tell. He doesn’t want to dwell on it.

“You’re holding out,” Pete accuses. “What else?”

“There were these massive slugs down there. Like, size of a condo in Jersey slugs.” Patrick pushes at Pete, but the hands around his back tighten. “Mr. Jones said it was a mutation.”

“Are you joking?” Joe asks. Patrick laughs until his stomach hurts. God, he wishes. 

“No,” he gasps. “I couldn’t come up with something so stupid on my own.” Pete shakes him until he stops laughing. 

“Get it together, dude,” he says into Patrick’s ear. 

“How were Mr. Jones’ accommodations?” Joe asks, as he roots through his bag. He comes up with a tub of vicks and unscrews the top. Andy sighs and opens the window. He pulls out another bag of granola and settles in. 

“Good,” Patrick chokes out. Pressure hits his shoulders and then Pete’s peering down at him, their noses touching and his eyes narrowed. 

“You motherfucker,” Pete says. He grins, and Patrick groans. He drops his head against the mattress and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It really had been too much to hope to skip this part of the day. “You got laid last night. I was worried sick thinking you _died_ , and you were getting your rocks off with some British bastard.”

“Shut up,” Patrick hisses. Andy pats his shoulder consolingly before wandering off to mess with the TV. Andy Hurley is a good man. Patrick’s keeping him around when he kills the others. 

“Mr. Jones?” Pete asks, poking his fingers into the soft space between Patrick’s ribs. Patrick swats halfheartedly at him. Pete’s like a toddler with a lollipop. “Was he the one in the-” Pete flaps his arms, which apparently is supposed to mean _huge fuckoff coat_ , “-or the one in the suit?”

“Ianto was the one in the suit,” Patrick says. He wills his face not to burn. He is a grown man. He will not be intimidated to talk about his sex life. His _awesome_ sex life. His sleep with two hot men at the same time sex life. Suck on that, Wentz. 

“ _Ianto_? Very Welsh.” Pete cackles when Patrick hits him in the face with a pillow. “And where did you meet the nice Welshman?”

“None of your business.” Patrick smacks him with the pillow again before tucking his legs under him. He reaches into Pete’s pocket and pulls out his phone. “Besides, you should probably call Bob. We’ve got insurance people to talk to.”

“I hate you,” Pete moans, but takes the phone and obediently dials. 

Andy settles on a Roseanne marathon and takes the space on Patrick’s left. Patrick puts his head on Andy’s shoulder, links his leg around Pete’s, and settles in. He’s home.

\---

Pete’s been on the phone with their manager for two hours. Patrick wishes he had popcorn. It makes him think of Jack and Ianto hidden away in the back of a movie theater, lewd and unashamed. He shifts on the mattress until he feels comfortable again.

“For the hundredth time, I didn’t set the explosion off.” Pete bangs his head against the headboard. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs. “I have never set off anything bigger than a firecracker.”

“You did blow up a toilet that one time,” Joe says from the foot of the bed. Pete mimes cutting his throat before banging his head again. Patrick rubs a hand across his jaw, finally, _finally_ clean shaven again, and frowns down at his own phone. 

“Can you please just call the insurance people?” Pete pleads. “We can probably borrow for the next couple of shows, but once we hit stateside again, we’re going to have to go a capella, and Joe’s beatboxing could use some work.”

“Your mom could use some work,” Joe says. He’s reached that floaty, lazy part of his high. He giggles a little when Pete pulls a face.

Patrick laughs and frees himself from the tangle of legs and arms. He and Andy have been playing a rousing game of words with friends, but Patrick’s been stuck with two x’s and a k for the last half hour and is running out of vocabulary. 

He ducks into the bathroom with every intention of cheating. As he’s looking up x words, his phone buzzes in his hand. The number is unfamiliar, but starts with 029. Patrick answers it. 

“Hello?” Patrick asks. 

“You’re all clear to leave,” a familiar woman’s voice says. Patrick assumes it’s the ever evasive Gwen. She pauses and Patrick wonders if he’s supposed to have some code word or something. He’d be an awful secret agent. Gwen laughs, bright and merry. “Jack and Ianto send their love.”

“I- uh. Thanks?” Patrick listens to her hang up and blinks. Alright, then. 

He peeks out the door and watches Pete try to shove his tongue into Joe’s ear. The resulting flurry of fists send Pete flying to the floor. Patrick abandons his list of words and flops back onto the pile of bodies on the bed. 

“Coast is clear. Please get me out of this room.”

“I’ve been considering trying to merge with the wallpaper,” Joe says. He pats the ugly floral print fondly. “It’s grown on me.”

“You do that,” Patrick says. “I’m getting on the bus.”

\---

It actually takes a while longer to get onto the bus. They check out and gather their stuff and talk to the venue heads again about the fees and fair pay. Patrick listens half-heartedly and misses Korean Tom Cruise. They never had to do leg work with him. 

It’s going on five when they finally, _finally_ unlock the bus doors and start throwing their things inside. Patrick has never been so happy to smell unwashed socks and skunk weed. He’s going to collapse into his bunk and listen to something soothing until they’re in another country.

A familiar SUV pulls into the parking lot. In the daylight, it’s much more intimidating. Patrick’s expecting Gwen, but is pleasantly surprised to see the neat lines of a suit instead.

“Hey,” Patrick says, jogging up to meet him halfway. He looks over his shoulder and is so, so glad to see the back of his band heading into the bus. The red mark on Ianto’s throat shows over his collar. Pete would never, ever let him live it down. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. Are you okay?” Ianto laughs. 

“Uninjured,” he says, holding his arms out at his sides, palms up. Patrick doesn’t see signs of his gun, but that doesn’t really mean anything. It should bother him how okay he is with being this close to a firearm. Possibly plural. 

“Not the same, but also good.” Patrick shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He tries to discreetly check for blood, but he has a feeling Ianto knows what he’s doing anyway.

“How long are you in town?” Ianto asks. Patrick appreciates his straight-forwardness. 

“Not long enough,” Patrick mutters darkly. If the stupid SUV had showed up a few hours earlier, he might have been able to sneak off and get a closer inspection. Wishful thinking. 

Ianto presents him with one of the ridiculous plush dragons from the tourist shop. There’s a card tied around its neck with a red string. It’s plain white, the text bold and raised just a little. It reads _Ianto Jones, Mermaid Quay Tourist Shop_ with an email address and a phone number typed neatly beneath. There’s a smiley face drawn on the bottom in green ink. It’s all very professional. 

“Since you didn’t get a proper Welsh holiday,” Ianto says as Patrick takes it. It looks just as stupid as it did in the shop and Patrick loves it.

“Next time I’ll aim for less excitement and more tea.” Patrick feels like he’s a teenager again, all awkward elbows and shuffling feet. It doesn’t help that Ianto’s so damn composed. Patrick thinks about shuddery breath against his neck and has to shake his head. 

“It’s a good plan,” Ianto says. 

There’s a moment of silence. Patrick fusses at the dragon and Ianto glances over at the car. Patrick wants to ask about Jack, or about the bright shiny letters spelling out _Torchwood_ on the roof of the SUV, or about anything, really, to get him to stick around for a few more minutes. It’s pathetic, he thinks. He is officially pathetic. 

“So if I call,” Patrick blurts, staring at the shiny eyes of the toy, “am I going to be interrupting another pest control issue? Ants with razor blades instead of teeth?”

“Ants don’t have teeth,” Ianto says dryly. “Though there may be beetles with paint guns. Very intimidating.” Patrick laughs and fiddles with the string around the dragon’s neck. “I think I can field a phone call. You’ll find Jack can get creative when there’s something we want.” 

His eyes flick toward the hotel. Patrick’s not sure if it’s supposed to be a subtle hint or just a quick survey of his surroundings. Patrick really, really wants it to be the first option. Doesn’t matter that technically they checked out two hours ago. 

“And what would that something be?” Patrick asks, trying for coy. He’s too old to be coy, but he’s pretty sure it’s working. 

“A holiday and a solid pension,” Ianto says, mouth quirking. 

“Every young man’s dream,” Patrick agrees. The door of the bus bangs open, and then Pete’s hanging out of it, half naked and head damp with bleach. Patrick hopes all his hair falls out. He waves the toy and sighs. “If you ever need anyone to stock the stuffed dragons, I could use a career change.” 

“Couldn’t we all,” Ianto says wistfully. “Have a safe trip.” He gives a quick, polite wave and then is gone, ducking into the massive SUV. It peels out of the parking lot, leaving Patrick standing alone with his dumb toy and a stupid smile. 

“Me and mister, mister Jones,” Pete croons from the step, offkey and too loud. “We got a thing, going _on_.” 

“If you sing another note, I’ll hurt you,” Patrick says. He lets himself be pulled back into the bus, clutching the dragon. 

“Parting gift from loverboy?” Pete asks, crowding too far into Patrick’s space. He yanks the toy out of Patrick’s hands and lifts it up to his face. “Not what I would have expected.”

“That’s the point,” Patrick says, already shedding shoes and coat. He leaves them in a heap on the floor, thinks of Ianto’s tidy, tidy apartment, and picks them up. Maybe he could do with a few changes in his life. 

“Wait,” Pete calls from the front of the bus, voice bouncing off the walls. “Who the hell is Jack?”

Patrick flops into his bunk and grabs his headphones, grinning to himself. He’s ready to leave.


End file.
